


Guided by the Beauty of Our Weapons

by cjmarlowe



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, addiction/recovery, coping skills, detective training, negotiating boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even for Holmes and Watson, some of the most important things in their lives take place in between cases, and adjusting to the new status quo is going to take some work on both sides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guided by the Beauty of Our Weapons

**Author's Note:**

> This is set at an unspecified point towards the end of Season 1 canon, after Joan becomes Sherlock's apprentice but before the endgame with Moran and Moriarty. Written for Big Bang Mixup 2013, for a brilliant mix by suchaprince. The master post can be found at http://bigbang-mixup.livejournal.com/35108.html and includes a complete track listing. Title lifted from the incomparable Leonard Cohen.

"You should have got that one right, Watson, you're not paying attention."

"I'm not paying attention?" she said. " _I'm_ not paying attention. You haven't even looked up from the newspaper yet."

"That should have been your first clue," said Holmes. "When have you ever known me to take this long to read a single page of a newspaper?"

"I didn't say you were reading it, I said you didn't look up from it. Which you didn't."

"Even if I had been reading, there are at least four other senses I could be engaging."

"At least?"

"Evidence suggests we may have several more yet to be named," said Sherlock, "and you can expect I will be using all of those as well."

"Enough," said Joan, taking her gloves off and throwing them in Sherlock's lap. "I'm hungry. It's time for lunch."

"Nonsense," said Sherlock. "I have fourteen more exercises for you to complete."

"Haven't you heard?" said Joan. "The human body needs _fuel_ , Sherlock. I'm making lunch. You're welcome to join me, if you've finished not reading your newspaper."

Joan had always been smart. Top of her class in high school, college, med school. She studied hard, but more than that she had a natural inclination towards synthesizing information and problem solving. She had never struggled to keep up with anyone, until Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't just the relentless information overload and exercises, though. Those were at least a little familiar. It was that Sherlock Holmes was mentally exhausting in nearly every way.

Especially when he was bored.

"All right, if you _must_ ," he said, as if he was so put upon that she was making him eat soup. She knew he'd be coming but she didn't wait for him as she went downstairs; feeding him was not an imperative right now, and he'd come down in his own time. He neither needed nor wanted a babysitter.

"We shall proceed with the other fourteen after lunch," he pronounced from a few steps behind her as she rummaged in the cupboard. "I think you'll find numbers five and eleven particularly scintillating as they draw upon your area of expertise."

"Tell me you didn't bring cadaver parts into our home."

"What do you take me for, a barbarian?" said Sherlock. "No, this will be much more subtle and sanitary." He watched her get out a few slices of bread before adding. "I understood you didn't appreciate talking about cadavers at lunchtime."

"I'm never sure what you mean when you say 'area of expertise'," said Joan, "and I'm not sure I want you conducting medical experiments in our home."

"Our primary professional calling is to go investigate dead bodies," said Sherlock. "I would be remiss if I didn't include some appropriate investigational techniques in your curriculum."

"Or you could acknowledge that it _is_ my area of expertise," said Joan, "having actually _studied and practiced medicine_ , and restrict your lesson plan to the things that are yours."

"You're the one who insists she is no longer a doctor," said Sherlock. "You must _practice_ these skills to keep them sharp. Five and eleven. I think you'll find you enjoy them."

Joan could admit that practicing her skills was not a terrible idea, but in this Sherlock wasn't her teacher. In this she had several old friends she could go to, not to mention a more than passing acquaintance with the medical examiner thanks to work she had already done with Sherlock. He was more equipped to train her in other things.

"Sherlock," she said, pausing with bread in hand, "did you scavenge our toaster?"

"I needed the heating element again," he said. "Soup and sandwiches doesn't require hot, crispy bread."

"Stop disassembling the kitchen appliances," she said. "I live here too."

"Then you can buy your own toaster."

"That was my toaster."

"Oh," said Sherlock, standing stock still for a moment. "I'll have it back by breakfast."

"See that you do," said Joan. There was nothing to put on sandwiches anyway, it turned out; she put the bread back into the bag and focused her attention on things that were actually possible.

This was her life now. It was funny how used to it she was getting.

* * *

Joan was in the zone, steps falling in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic, fashion, blood pumping and music in her ears keeping the beat. The only reason she even noticed him was that she couldn't turn off that eye for the unusual anymore. Even in the zone, she was acutely aware of her surroundings, noticing not just what was there but what shouldn't have been.

She slowed down and veered off the path, coming to a stop next to the bench and stretching to keep her muscles limber.

"What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing here?" said Sherlock. "This is a public park. _The_ public park. I'm sitting, enjoying the foliage."

"There is no foliage," said Joan. "There are barely buds."

"Then I am enjoying the _lack_ of foliage," said Sherlock. "All the better to see the sun."

"It's cloudy," said Joan. "And it's cold. Even _I'm_ not particularly enjoying being out here today. What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

"Gregson hasn't called," he said, "and I was going a little stir crazy. I thought, what better place to find someone up to something illicit than Central Park."

"You're thinking of the seventies," said Joan, "and also, nighttime. Seriously, Sherlock, is something wrong?"

"I can't just come to the park?"

"To this park? Exactly when and where you know I'll be running?" said Joan. "Give me a little credit. If you just came to interrupt me because you're bored, though, I'm leaving."

"You left your phone behind," he said, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket and holding it out to her between two fingers. "I took a message. Emily. Lovely girl."

"You answered my phone?"

"In my defense, I thought it was mine," he said, and she snatched the message from him. All it said was that Emily called.

"You came all the way down here for this?"

"Also, I was bored," said Sherlock.

Joan sighed and slipped it into her pocket. "I'm doing another lap," she said, stuffing her headphones back in her ears. "If you're still here, I'll let you come home with me. Try not to get into too much trouble."

"Oh, I never make that promise," said Sherlock, but Joan was already turning her music back on and didn't reply. It wasn't as though she didn't already know that anyway.

> Marie hoped that wasn't what she thought it was, but she's been around the block a few times and she's pretty sure she's got a good idea what's going on. And in broad daylight, too; it used to be that sort of thing only happened after dark. That young lady had so much going for her, she was beautiful, she was healthy...Marie couldn't imagine what was going on in her life that she felt the need to turn to drugs. But there she was, clear as day, taking a break from her run through the park to talk to the dealer on the bench, the one Marie'd had her eye on ever since she and Muffin had sat down. It obviously wasn't the first time either. Such a shame, such a damn shame

Joan was blindfolded when the doorbell rang, trying to determine the density of objects by the sound they made when they hit the floor. 

"You're going to get that, right?"

"You've been living here for months, you should have a sense of where everything is, spatially. Try to answer the door without taking off the blindfold."

"I'm not sure that's—"

"One must take advantage of learning opportunities when they present themselves, Watson," he said. "Go on, what have you got to lose?"

"My life, when I break my neck on the stairs?"

But she was game for it, realizing that she _did_ have a good spatial awareness of the brownstone as long as Sherlock didn't leave things in her path, which wasn't something that could be counted upon. The doorbell rang again on her way but she didn't let it hurry her steps, placing each foot precisely on her way down the stairs and up the hallway, using her arm as her guide. She managed to make it without stumbling once, and took off the blindfold before answering the door.

"I meant for you to leave that on, Watson, and guess at our visitor based on their voice."

"And it if was someone shoving a gun in my face?" said Joan, which wasn't a likely scenario, but wasn't actually outside the realm of possibility. "If you want to work on voice and speech pattern recognition, we should do it in a closed environment."

"Where's the fun in that?" said Sherlock, and Joan opened the door to find Alfredo leaning against the door jamb and smirking at her.

"Did I come at a bad time?"

"It's as good as any other time," said Joan, smiling back at him and opening the door a little wider. "Just come by for a visit?"

"Actually, I got a text from Sherlock, saying he had something he wanted to work on?" he said, holding up his phone like evidence.

"You did?" 

"And when Sherlock's the one to make the overture..."

"You run with it," said Joan. "I get it. Sherlock!"

"No need to shout, Watson, I'm right behind you," he said from the stairs. "Ah, Alfredo, you're here. Good. We can begin."

"Begin what?" said Joan. "Do I need to put the blindfold back on?"

"No, you've spoilt that already," said Sherlock. "We've moved on now. Right this way."

Joan tucked the blindfold half in her back pocket, confident it was going to make a reappearance in the near future. Sherlock had been on a sensory deprivation kick these past few days. She had a set of earplugs in another pocket, and nose clips in a third, though that one was just preemptive.

"New case?" said Alfredo.

"No, _not_ a new case," said Sherlock, with more force than was necessary. "Captain Gregson has forsaken me."

"Just because he hasn't had a case for you in a while doesn't mean he's forsaken you," said Joan.

"I have a police scanner. I know crime hasn't mysteriously halted in New York City. There were at least five cases I would have expected him to call me in on."

"Maybe he just didn't need you," said Joan. "That's good, right? That his own detectives are competent at their jobs?"

"It certainly makes _me_ feel better," said Alfredo. "These days, anyway. So what do you need me for that's not a case, and am I going to regret leaving my brother at the mercy of his sister-in-law?"

"I'm sure he's done something to deserve it."

"Sherlock!" said Joan.

"What? He is a brother, ergo, he has probably done something to antagonize and or alienate Alfredo at some point in time. That's what brothers _do_."

"Can't deny he's left me to the wolves a time or two," said Alfredo, "but I told him this was important and I'd hate to be liar."

"I," said Sherlock, reaching down onto the floor and lifting a squat, gray box onto his desk, "have a safe to crack."

Alfredo held both his hands up. "Safe cracking was never my game," he said.

"Not your primary game, no, but are you going to tell me that you never defeated a few little home security systems, helped yourself to the family jewels, so to speak?"

Alfredo gave him a wry smile. "I can neither confirm nor deny those accusations," he said. "Either way, you're way more the expert than I am."

"Well, that's the point," said Sherlock. "I am an expert in this field. My ability to break into this safe in seconds will not be instructive. Your ability should prove much more realistic."

"So you want me to work on this with Joan because my ability is so much less than yours?"

"Essentially, yes," said Sherlock. "So, shall we?"

Joan exchanged a look with Alfredo, but the brusque efficiency was so familiar to both of them by now that, other than the shared chagrin, they barely batted an eye.

"It's been a while," said Alfredo. "I don't have my equipment anymore."

"Not a problem," said Sherlock. "As you can see, I have provided everything you're going to need. Any time now."

"Definitely starting to regret blowing off my brother," said Alfredo.

"Blowing off one's brother should never be a cause for regret," said Sherlock. "If you're that worried, though, rest assured I don't intend to keep you here forever. Just until Joan picks up sufficient skill."

"I'll put a pot of coffee on," said Joan dryly, though she didn't make a move to do it, just kept her eyes on both Sherlock's hands and Alfredo's, Alfredo's for what he was actually doing and Sherlock's for those microtwitches that told her what he wanted to be doing. Both were equally instructive.

"That might not be a bad idea," said Alfredo, and they got to work.

* * *

"It's very loud, you know," said Sherlock, circling back to the kitchen, picking up a mug, looking at the bottom, putting it back down on the counter again and returning to his window.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Joan.

"Your breakfast. It's very loud."

"It's rice krispies."

"All that snapping and the crackling and the...what's the other one?"

"Popping."

"Dreadful," said Sherlock. "Unfortunate design flaw."

"And also delicious," said Joan. "What's really the problem?"

"You underestimate the potential impact of your cereal choices."

"I really don't," said Joan. "So what noise is actually bothering you, if it's even noise-related? Voices in your head getting too loud again?" Sherlock was silent, and Joan put down her spoon. "I was kidding."

"Oh, don't worry, I haven't started developing clinic symptoms," said Sherlock. "It's the curse of a brain that's always running at full tilt. It's too easy to have conversations with myself, and I am not always kind."

"So what are you being unkind about today?" said Joan. "Maybe we can work on that."

"You're not actually a therapist," said Sherlock, "but in lieu of someone more qualified to diagnose my particular foibles...I'm wondering if I've done something to lose Captain Gregson's trust."

"Something recently?" said Joan. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"Because he hasn't called."

"Have you called him?" Sherlock was silent again. "If he's forgiven you for everything you've hit him with so far and continues to value your input, I doubt he'd suddenly stop now."

"And yet," said Sherlock crisply.

"Are you usually this unkind to yourself? You're not to blame for a lack of cases lately."

"No," agreed Sherlock, "but I am to blame for a number of other things that have negatively impacted my life."

"And to credit for turning them around," said Joan. "Do you want me to call Alfredo? This sounds like something you should be talking about with him."

"If I wanted Alfredo's counsel I am perfectly capable of calling him myself," said Sherlock. "I would just like a few moments of blessed silence."

Joan just grabbed the cereal and poured him a bowl of rice krispies. "Different kind of noise," she said when he gave her a sidelong look. "Try it."

Sherlock stared at the bowl for a moment, then poured some milk and dug into it with gusto. And for a little while, they ate together to the sound of wind and traffic and the compressor on the refrigerator and snapping, crackling and popping. Functional silence.

* * *

Joan was slightly short of breath when she woke up, which was not normal. It made her feel both alert and sluggish at the same time, and wary, a sensation that sharpened when she realized that she couldn't move her arms to hoist herself out of bed. Not that they were paralyzed, no. She was _tied up_.

Immediately she took in her surroundings, but she was definitely in her own bedroom, her own bed—she could tell by the specific obstructions in the sunbeam, the imperfections in the visible wall and the feel of her mattress—and the only thing that was different from when she went to sleep was that her door was open.

Goddamn it.

"This is not okay!" said Joan, struggling up to a seated position with her hands bound at the wrist behind her. "Sherlock!"

She knew he was there, but there was no answer.

"All right, fine," Joan muttered, moving her wrists to determine the kind of handcuffs she was being bound by. Definitely metal, not novelty or zip ties, no spreader bar. Possibly standard issue police. She could pick this, with enough time and concentration. She wasn't sure she could do it behind her back.

Her arms were a bit sore, but not asleep, and she still had mobility with no sharp pains in the joints, so she couldn't have been bound for very long. Not that that helped her at all, except in that her hands would have increased dexterity if the blood flow hadn't been too badly compromised.

The nearest item that could pick them was probably the paperclip on her bedside table, but there was no immediate danger, so she got to her feet and found the lockpick kit she'd left on her dresser, opening it up blindly, then turning back to pinpoint the location of the pick she wanted before reaching for it, too.

It took her a lot longer than it did when her hands were bound within her sight, and she dropped the pick twice, but she got there in the end, yanking the handcuffs off her wrists and marching out to find Sherlock without even changing out of her nightshirt.

She couldn't even find words for a moment, then dangled the handcuffs in front of him accusingly.

"I would have preferred to see you do it with the paperclip," said Sherlock, "but good effort nonetheless."

"I would have preferred _not to be handcuffed in bed_ ," said Joan. "What is wrong with you?"

"I would have let you out if it had taken too long," said Sherlock. "Your safety was in no way compromised."

"You handcuffed me. In bed."

"You make it sound much more sordid than it actually was," said Sherlock. "Can you think of a better time to have put them on you unawares?"

"There was no reason to have done it when I was unaware," said Joan. "You could have asked. I would have said yes. I can see the importance of knowing how to do this, but waking up _handcuffed_ —"

"Yes, well, that was the point," said Sherlock. "You're never going to be handcuffed under ideal circumstances. You need to know how to uncuff yourself while suffering from blood loss, head wounds, sedatives..."

"Permission, Sherlock," said Joan. "Unless you're planning to _be_ my kidnapper, get my permission."

"Noted," said Sherlock. "May I have your permission to try the experiment again tomorrow?"

"No," said Joan and pushed past him, slamming the bathroom door.

"What about next week, then?"

She ignored him completely, rubbing her sore wrists. Maybe next week, but _not_ in her bedroom. Some boundaries needed to be inviolable.

* * *

"We have a meeting to get to," said Joan before Sherlock could start experimenting on her again. She didn't mind the exercises, or the readings. In fact, she found more of them exciting than baffling, with a few pointed exceptions. Stuff worth getting up for in the morning. But experimenting _on_ her was where she liked to draw a line, no matter how valuable he claimed to find the results.

"Just a few more minutes?"

"We're already going to be late," said Joan, wrapping a scarf around her neck and waiting pointedly at the door. Sherlock seemed to sense, for once, that it wasn't a moment to push, and followed on her heels a few moments later as they headed for the subway station.

"Mind the gap," said Sherlock. "Approximately forty-two people are killed by subway trains annually. Not all in New York, of course, but one can safely assume that we claim the majority all the same."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Joan, expecting an uneventful trip.

Sydney was speaking when they arrived, talking about her time as a drug mule for her deadbeat ex-boyfriend and his cronies, her time in prison and the downhill slide that followed, not preceded, it.

"Well, it's no wonder," said Sherlock, "a submissive personality type like hers."

"Behave," said Joan, tugging on Sherlock's sleeve to get him to sit down, in the back, quietly.

"I was given to believe this was the one place I was encouraged to make a spectacle of myself."

"Share, yes," said Joan. "Catalog the personality faults of your fellow attendees? No, that is never okay."

"What if I do it quietly? Would that suffice?"

"Or you could listen. You might learn a lot more that way."

"I'm still more interested in the things people don't want to say. It's all a part of the great puzzle."

"It's not a great puzzle. It's a meeting. It's an anonymous meeting. Do you know what that means?"

"Have I taught you nothing?"

"Not _here_ ," said Joan, and he finally quieted but he didn't still, and Joan had no control over what he did in the privacy of his own head. Sherlock's brain would not be stopped.

He was so fidgety that Joan almost thought that he _was_ going to get up and speak this time, though God only knew what was going to come out of his mouth if and when he did, but he didn't. He sat there in less than stoic silence for the rest of the meeting, and forewent the cup of coffee afterward to snatch up his coat and head out the door.

Joan struggled to follow, catching up with him at the door as he watched Sydney wait at the corner for the light.

"No," said Joan, looping her arm through Sherlock's, the better to steer him with. "You're not following her."

" _Someone_ should check the veracity of her claims."

"Really?" said Joan. "You're going to check the veracity of someone's claims made in a confidential meeting?"

"I wasn't going to _expose_ her in any way," said Sherlock, "but such an investigation could prove fruitful in terms of her compatriots."

"No," said Joan again. "We're going home."

"At the very least, we are _not_ going home," said Sherlock. "You can't make me."

"If you mean I can't physically force you then yes, you're probably right," said Joan, "but if you think I can't compel you to do it through various other means, not the least of which being telling you that you sound like a five year old, then you are sorely mistaken."

"I would never have said such a thing when I was five," said Sherlock, but he was in a full on sulk now.

"All right, fine, we can get a cup of coffee at that place around the corner," said Joan. "And something to eat. Have you eaten today?"

"I had a thing," said Sherlock, waving his hand vaguely. "That I found."

"You had a thing that you found?" said Joan. "Okay, so we're definitely getting something to eat, and you are going to stop making cases out of nothing."

"It's not nothing," said Sherlock, "and they're not cases, they're training exercises."

"There is an appropriate time and a place for training exercises, and it is not at a meeting," said Joan, then, before Sherlock could argue semantics, added, "or immediately in the aftermath of one, as a result of something seen or heard in a meeting."

"So you're saying if someone had told a suspicious story in the supermarket, you would be gung ho about following up on it?"

"I'm not sure gung ho is the word I would use," said Joan, "but I would be more receptive. Yes."

"All right, then," said Sherlock. "I think the pantry needs restocking. We can do it tomorrow."

He wasn't wrong. They were desperately low on just about everything. But that didn't mean she wanted to make it an opportunity for Sherlock to hare off after an imaginary (probably not imaginary; Sherlock was good at what he did) criminal in the produce aisle.

"Fine," said Joan. "You win. We'll go shopping tomorrow and you can deduce to your heart's content. But I'm not willing to go any further than our bodega."

"That's acceptable," said Sherlock. "Plenty of shady characters in a bodega. Almost as many as Central Park."

"Enough," said Joan, but she had to laugh a little and slap his arm at that. "What do you want to eat?"

> Sue always got apple pie at the diner after a meeting; if she could be said to have one vice she still indulged in, that was it. So she was already seated at her favorite corner table when that couple from the meeting came in, the one she saw every now and again.
> 
> The woman had never spoken at a meeting, and he wasn't exactly a Chatty Cathy either, but it was easy to tell they'd been together since long before getting clean. It was all about the body language. Her calm pose. His twitching leg. The way they tilted towards one another. She got clean first, and she kept him on the straight and narrow now. It didn't matter that Sue had never seen them be overtly affectionate with one another, it was written all over them, there at the meeting and even more now at the diner.
> 
> It wasn't a bad thing, but she was always a little wary of relationships like that. If one person slipped, even a little, the whole thing could fall apart like a house of cards. Still, they looked stable enough right now, and really, it wasn't her problem.

Joan was just draining the sink when Sherlock showed up in the doorway to her bathroom, arms at his sides and leaning ever so slightly in through the door.

"You know I use a laundry service," said Sherlock as Joan wrung out the last of her clothing. "I could refer you. They're really quite efficient."

"You already know I use them," said Joan, "which means you're trying to make a pointed comment about me doing my handwashing in the bathroom. Would you rather I did it when you weren't home?"

"Merely wondering about the necessity. Surely you could find someone to do it for you."

"I'd rather wash my own underwear, thanks," said Joan. And a few other items while she was at it. "Nobody's forcing you to watch."

"Are you going to dry them on the radiators again?"

"Just the sweaters, and a couple of dresses," said Joan. "I'm not going to be flinging my bras around the brownstone."

"I wouldn't dream of accusing you of flinging," said Sherlock. "I have a friend—"

"You have a friend?"

"I had a friend," said Sherlock without missing a beat, "who used to hang her clothing on the radiators to dry it. Used to use every one in the flat."

"What happened?"

"What do you mean what happened? Her clothes smellt of iron and old paint and dust, just like yours are going to."

"I mean to your friendship," said Joan. "And I don't smell like iron and dust."

"Oh," said Sherlock. "Well I, as they say, happened. A period of addiction, a few months in rehab, and you find you have a lot fewer friends than you remember."

"I'm not sure if this is supposed to be a cautionary tale, or a confession," said Joan. "Do you want me to move my sweaters?"

"They're going to get stretched," said Sherlock, and sniffed, and that wasn't a yes or a no. It wasn't even an implied one or the other. It was a deliberate evasion.

"Is this bringing back memories?"

Sherlock sniffed again. "A few. Perhaps."

"And is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet," he said. "We may need to let this play out."

"Well, I'm game if you are," said Joan. "But I'm going to keep hanging my underwear."

"That's fine with me," said Sherlock, waving his hand airily. "I'm not going to be put off by a few unmentionables. Unless they're on the radiators."

"No, these are a little more delicate than that," said Joan. A little. Some of them. "Was this friend someone you used to live with? A lover?"

"No," said Sherlock. "Neither. We were at university together. She went on to become a doctor of somethingorother."

"Somethingorother," said Joan. "A popular field of study."

"Public administration, government policy," said Sherlock. "Something like that."

"Does she live in London?"

"You'll have to drag her kicking and screaming out of her London flat," said Sherlock. "Or at least, that was true the last time we spoke. We lost touch. She might be living in Durban now for all I know."

"How do you feel about that?"

Joan hung things as she talked, a row of neat hangers and clips on the shower curtain rod that Sherlock pointedly did not look at.

"I don't," said Sherlock. "I don't feel about that. But I do wonder if she's draping two thousand dollar suits on the fixtures."

"You can't tell me you don't feel anything at all," said Joan, drying her hands on the towel by the sink and shutting off the light, urging Sherlock out of the doorway.

"I feel ashamed," said Sherlock after a moment. "It's my fault we lost touch. It's my fault she's not likely to be inclined to reestablish our friendship. I don't think not having her in my life has had a huge impact on the direction it is currently taking, but still."

"I know your embarrassment is something you've been working on," said Joan. "You can't change the things that have already happened—"

"I'm familiar with the serenity prayer, thank you."

"—but if you wanted, you could find out where she is now. It probably wouldn't be hard."

"I don't," said Sherlock. "Want to. Should I be able to change the past then yes, I would do that, but I choose not to change the present and future in this instance. Better to move forward. If I wanted to find her, I would have done so already."

"As long as you're aware of it as a decision that you've made, and not something that just happened to you," said Joan. "The present is something you have control over."

"I am...happy where my life is right now," said Sherlock. "Perhaps I'll revisit the decision in the future. In the meantime, please feel free to deform your sweaters anywhere you like."

"Well, thanks," said Joan, pressing two damp sweaters into his arms. "Here, you can help.

* * *

"You're on your own tonight," said Joan, "I'm going out."

"You have a date."

"I'm not even going to pretend to be impressed that you know that. Anyone looking at me right now would know that." She tilted her head as she fastened the back on one of her earrings and fluffed her hair over her shoulders one more time. "I'll call you in a couple of hours."

"You know you don't actually have to do that anymore."

"It's not a professional obligation, it's a moral choice," said Joan. "Don't wait up."

Sherlock didn't answer, which actually concerned her more than when he said something completely inappropriate. But when she looked he was concentrating on his media bank and she didn't even bother waving as she left.

Darren was a friend of a friend, a human rights lawyer that she'd met a couple of times when she was still practicing medicine. He'd been married then, and apparently was not anymore. (She'd chosen to take someone's word for that this time, until she had reason to do otherwise.) He met her at the restaurant—not intimidatingly fancy, but no greasy spoon either—and was gentlemanly as could be.

"They told me not to ask," he said, after they'd exchanged pleasantries and a few catching up details, "but I have to."

"You want to know why I didn't go back to medicine," inferred Joan.

"You just seemed so dedicated to it when we met," he said. "It was a shock to everyone."

"Well," said Joan, looking at her reflection in the soup spoon instead of at his face, "sometimes things just change. I always knew I was going to be a doctor, from the time I was very young. I never gave myself a chance to explore other options."

"And that's what you're doing now?"

Joan smiled at that, then looked up and actually chuckled. "I know my friends think I'm nuts," she said, "but I love being a consulting detective. Most of the time."

"I don't think you're nuts," said Darren, and she actually believed him. It didn't sound like he was just humoring her for the sake of the date. "But you might have to tell me what that actually _is_."

For the first time Joan actually relaxed and started to enjoy the evening. Darren was a charming, unpretentious guy, who did interesting work and seemed to have a genuine interest in her life—her actual life now, not the life she used to lead. And it didn't hurt that he'd chosen an excellent restaurant. Under other circumstances, this would be a gold star date.

But Joan's actual life now meant that she didn't get to take anything at face value anymore, even when she wanted to. It wasn't that Darren was insincere about anything he said to her. She was pretty sure he was as genuine as he was coming across. She was also pretty sure he was still in love with his wife, and she barely needed more than basic observational skill to know it.

He hadn't talked about her once all night, and yet, Joan knew. It was as clear as if he had.

She let him put an arm around her as they left the restaurant, the night chillier than when they'd gone in, but once they were a few steps away from the restaurant and the people congregating near its entrance, she paused and turned to face him.

"Listen," she said, kindly. "I had a lovely time, but you know you're not ready to be dating yet. Why did you let Emily set us up?"

He sighed and didn't even try to deny it. "I wanted to have a night out with someone who is beautiful and intelligent," he said. "I thought that meant I was ready."

"Well, I would be happy to have coffee with you any time if I fit the bill," said Joan, "but no more romantic pretenses. There's no shame in taking your time getting over someone, especially someone who meant that much to you." Or not getting over them and getting back together, as the case might be.

"Did I at least do all right?" he said. "I'm a little out of practice."

"You want some dating pointers?" said Joan, and she couldn't help smiling a little at that. "Emily will tell you I'm definitely not the authority on dating etiquette. She's going to give up on setting me up soon."

"Something tells me you won't mind when she does."

Joan just inclined her head slightly to admit the truth of that. Her life was just a little too full and strange these days, and she had the funniest feeling that she was going to end up dating someone from the precinct one of these days, just because they might actually _understand_. "But for what it's worth, you did everything right."

"Well, that's a relief," he said. "I'm almost certain you're lying and there's actually no such thing as doing everything right when it comes to first dates, but thank you for saying so anyway."

"Not lying," Joan promised him, "just an increasingly terrible judge of what's appropriate on a date. "I wasn't joking about the coffee, if you're ever interested. As friends."

"I'm not a guy with so many friends he can turn down an offer like that," said Darren. "I'll call you some time?"

"Do that," said Joan. "Have a good night, Darren. I think I'll catch the subway home."

"Are you sure? I can get you a cab."

"I've developed a taste for people watching," said Joan. "Occupational hazard. Have a good night, Darren."

"Take care," he said as she retreated and that, too, felt refreshingly sincere. Joan didn't have so many friends who got her that she would turn down the offer either.

> It was nice that the place next door was finally being lived in regularly again. Ever since it had been purchased a few years ago it had sporadic activity, mostly maintenance and cleaning and a couple of short-term tenants, but most of the time it sat empty. If it was meant to be an investment, it wasn't a particularly sound one if a person wasn't willing to put the effort in for restoration.
> 
> Maybe it had been sitting empty for so long so that Joan and Sherlock could move in when the time was right; Ben was a big believer in things happening for a reason. It was obvious to him they weren't involved with one another, or related, but that didn't mean they weren't meant to be together. They were clearly complicated people, and Ben couldn't pretend to understand just what it was they did at all hours, but they'd been good for the place. Homes were meant to be lived in.
> 
> He could do with fewer visits by the police, though.

"Did you know that there are approximately one thousand two hundred reported injuries each year and at least one known death caused by the use and misuse of mechanical dildos?"

"Sherlock, get out of my bedroom."

"Don't you find that interesting? I would have thought there would be more."

"Seriously," said Joan, smushing her face into her pillow. "Either you give me a very good reason for what you're doing in here, or I'm doing to demonstrate the prevalence of duvet injuries."

"I don't have a statistic for that one," said Sherlock, but nonetheless he moved closer to the door. "I thought I might join you on your run today."

Joan looked up at him, then twisted her body to look at her clock. "Have you even slept?"

"A refreshing amount," said Sherlock, "and I figured you would have some tension to work off, hence, the run."

"I don't have any tension to work off, Sherlock, there was no tension. If there'd been tension, I wouldn't have been home early."

"I don't mean sexual tension," said Sherlock. "No, obviously the chemistry wasn't there. Are you coming?"

Joan groaned, but she was already pushing herself out of bed, body preparing itself to do what her brain wasn't ready for, quite. There was something to be said for longstanding habits. And if Sherlock was sincere in his offer to join her—which she wasn't yet convinced that he was—then she was morally bound to encourage that, even if professional ethics no longer applied.

"Boundaries, Sherlock," she said, sitting up but not getting out of bed. "This is my private space."

"So is that a yes or a no to the run?"

"How about you let me put some pants on before making me answer that question," said Joan. Of course, it was already clear that she was getting up to go for a run, but Sherlock still waited there like an eager puppy. "Without you watching? Get out of my room."

"It really is a simple—"

"Out."

Mercifully, he closed the door behind himself and Joan got out of bed, stretched, and tried to be positive about Sherlock's interest in her morning routine, regardless of his invasion of her privacy. It may or may not have been a step in the right direction; she chose to believe it was one.

What she hadn't noticed before, and really should have even though he'd woken her up from a deep sleep and she hadn't been at her best, was that Sherlock really was dressed for a run. More or less. In his own way.

"I hope you weren't counting on a trip into Manhattan because this isn't one of my big run days," said Joan. 

"That suits me just fine," said Sherlock. "Central Park is lovely, yes, but it can't be so superior a running location that you're willing to make the trek out there as often as you do."

"It is," said Joan, "and I don't go nearly as often as I used to. Let me get a glass of water and I'll be ready to go."

"Right," said Sherlock. "Hydration is crucial. I myself am already fully hydrated."

Joan ignored him as she went downstairs to get herself a glass of water, check the fridge to make sure there was something for breakfast when she got back, and headed back upstairs again.

"So what's with the change of heart," she said, stretching while standing on the sidewalk outside the brownstone. Sherlock hesitated, then imitated her. "No, let me guess. Boredom?"

"Your previous recommendations for clearing the mind and getting the blood flowing proved very effective," said Sherlock. "I thought perhaps this might prove equally fruitful."

"You're bored _and_ you want to find something to solve," interpreted Joan.

"And if I spent one more minute indoors I'm going to start disassembling everything, right down to the wall clocks," said Sherlock.

"I'm just surprised you haven't already," said Joan. "All right then, just try to keep up."

"Tall order," said Sherlock, but he actually tried. As far as encouraging positive habits went, it was a fair start.

* * *

Ms. Hudson came on Tuesdays, and usually they were out on one case or another and only saw the signs of her handiwork, the reorganized shelves, the tidied kitchen, the lack of cobwebs on the light fixtures. But with Sherlock as housebound as he was making himself, he was in his study when she arrived that afternoon, with Joan very deliberately _not_ in his study with him.

"All right, what's wrong?" she said, hands on her hips and prepared to fix everyone else's problems, which was inevitably less complicated than dealing with her own. But then, wasn't that true of everyone?

"Nothing's wrong," said Sherlock, snappish, slamming his book shut again getting up. Joan watched from the hall and thought about heading upstairs, out of the line of fire.

"You're such a liar," said Ms. Hudson. "Well, if you're not going to tell me, at least get out of my way. _What_ have you been doing in here?"

"Just the usual," said Sherlock. " _Sans_ actual police involvement."

"He's taken apart everything he owns," said Joan, from the hallway.

"Temporarily," said Sherlock, pronouncing every syllable. "Everything should be taken apart once in a while. What's the point of something if you don't know what makes it tick?"

"You didn't need to do them all simultaneously," said Joan.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," said Sherlock.

"If the two of you are going to have a conversation," said Ms. Hudson, "would you mind doing it while you're in the same room? I feel like you're both shouting at me."

"Sorry," said Joan, deciding to be the bigger person and venturing into the study. "Do you think you can help?"

"Well, I'm no miracle worker," said Ms. Hudson, "but I'll see what I can do."

"You mustn't disturb the working parts, though," insisted Sherlock. "Reassembly is part of the process."

"Let her work, Sherlock," said Joan. "There are plenty of other places you can be, without even leaving the house."

"They're in discrete piles," he went on. "You can work around them."

"Honey, I'll make it work," said Ms. Hudson. "I've got an excess of frustration to work through today."

"Discrete piles," Sherlock said again, until Joan physically tugged him out of the room and down the stairs. "I'm going to be off schedule now. I had it all calculated very precisely."

"You'll live," said Joan. "There must be something that quiet your brain other than nonstop work." 

"There is," said Sherlock. "Heroin. And since we both agree that is not an option, we're back to work again."

"Other than the drugs," said Joan, but there was a tension in him now that she was going to keep an eye on. "You know you can't just say that have me forget it, right?"

"I am well aware," said Sherlock. "Now you'll have to stay with me all day, won't you?"

"Only because I'm your friend," Joan reminded him. "I'm not under professional obligation anymore."

"You'd be under professional obligation if your boss told you to, wouldn't you?" said Sherlock, very obviously looking anywhere but at her.

"If you're considering doing that,'" said Joan, "then we need to have a conversation about employer-employee boundaries and my actual job description. Do we need to have that conversation?"

"No," said Sherlock, sullenly, and flung himself into one of the chairs.

"Good," said Joan. Of course she was going to stay now, but _not_ because Sherlock was trying to manipulate her into it. That heroin comment had been entirely too sincere, and while she doubted that Sherlock was actually on the verge of relapse, she wasn't going to take that chance. "We can do that taste test you've been wanting to try.

Sherlock perked up visibly at that. "Really?"

"Sure, why not,'" said Joan. "Just don't poison me."

"I would never intentionally and irreversibly poison you."

"I'm disturbed that you felt the need to put qualifiers on that, but okay," said Joan, sitting down while Sherlock sprung back up again, digging into the kitchen cupboards and then venturing further afield. "Let's do this."

The things she did for Sherlock. Her therapist was going to have a field day.

> She loved Sherlock to pieces, make no mistake, but if that boy ever took Joan Watson for granted, Ms. Hudson was going to give him whatfor. Sherlock was a gem, deep inside, but it took a lot of patience and persistence to find it, and if he didn't value each and every person who tried—and those who succeeded even more—then he didn't deserve to have them in his life.
> 
> Ms. Hudson was taking great strides in valuing herself these days, and she wasn't going to be shy about applying those standards to everyone else in her life. Everyone could use a little improvement.

"Okay, I"m cutting you off," said Joan. "Your brain has reached its saturation point, Sherlock. Everything that's going in right now will be coming right back out again."

"That's not how brains work."

"Really? You know that for a fact? Because last time I checked, no one was entirely sure how the human brain worked."

"Perhaps not," said Sherlock, "but regardless of its comparison to a sponge, it is not _actually_ a thing that can become overfull when one decides to gorge."

"I don't care," said Joan. "It's one o'clock in the morning and you've been overstimulating all of your senses for at least sixteen hours. I'm cutting you off. Don't make me cut the power, because I will."

"Not _all_ of my senses," said Sherlock. "Other than a brief sojourn for lunch, I've left taste out of the equation. It's quite redundant when you're working on smell. I believe I've made a breakthrough, in fact, with regards to the relationship between the smell of citrus and the rapid visual cues made stylistically prevalent by music videos. I've kept meticulous notes."

"Bed," said Joan. "Do you need to tell you the diagnostic value of dreams to get you to go?"

"No," said Sherlock, "but I'll find your argument more convincing if you do."

"Dreams are the body's way of sorting and synthesizing the information we take in when we're conscious," said Joan. "They're the body's way of making sense of the world."

"Last night I dreamt of line dancing donuts," said Sherlock.

"Then you shouldn't have gone to sleep hungry," said Joan. "The stimuli you take in closest to the time you sleep will be the most prevalent. Which means you should stop _before_ that documentary on serial killers. We already have enough nightmare fuel in our lives."

"Are you going to come tuck me in?" said Sherlock. "It would make for a very restful final piece of stimuli."

"I'm not your nanny," said Joan.

"No, my nanny was a great bull of a woman," said Sherlock, "and you're nothing like her at all. If it's any consolation, she wasn't any better at getting me to bed than you are."

"I don't even know what to believe anymore when you open your mouth," said Joan, heading for the power outlet. "You thought I was kidding? I wasn't kidding."

"Just a few more—"

She yanked the whole power bar out of the wall, and all the screens went dark, the room went silent. "I know you're frustrated," she said, "but let's work on settling your brain down instead of stimulating it for a little while."

"I take my cocoa with cream, no marshmallows," said Sherlock after a moment, and turned on his heel and headed upstairs.

Joan sighed, but she also smiled as she went downstairs to make it. She may have forced the decision this time, but she _knew_ Sherlock, and if he wasn't taking in what she was suggesting he was going to go on doing what he was doing no matter what obstacles she put in his way. Maybe he'd actually get adequate rest tonight. 

Maybe.

* * *

"Were you aware that hundreds of people die each year from so-called 'fatal narcissism'?"

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"You're the one who brought up my father," said Sherlock. "I find it curious, though. Should we attribute deaths to the actual cause, such a suicide by drowning, or to the underlying condition that precipitated the cause of death. One can't actually die of narcissism itself."

"I doubt that 'narcissism' has ever been listed as the cause of death on a death certificate," said Joan, "and I only brought up your father because I know you heard from him today. He cc'd me on his email."

"It is neither the first nor the last time my father has emailed me to let me know he's passing through New York. You may recall what happened the last time."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try again," said Joan. "We could arrange a lunch."

"The fact that he didn't suggest it himself makes it even less likely he'll show up."

"The fact that he didn't suggest it himself may mean that he's waiting for you to reach out to him again," said Joan. "It's not unheard of."

"Clearly you haven't been paying attention," said Sherlock.

"I never told you this, but when I was younger, still in med school, I was estranged from my brother—"

"Oh, don't even get me started on my brother."

Joan stopped cold. "You have a brother?"

"I said don't get me started," said Sherlock, hunching into himself and chewing on his thumbnail. "You were saying, about your brief and no doubt gentle estrangement?"

"I was trying to say that, uh, that these things aren't necessarily permanent," said Joan. "You have a brother? Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Not relevant," said Sherlock. "I am not estranged from my father, Miss Watson, we merely have a distant relationship, not uncommon in families of our stature. He only told me he was in New York for courtesy's sake."

"So do you ever see him? At all?"

"On those rare occasions he desires my company, he refrains from announcing himself," said Sherlock. "He would simply have shown up on our doorstep and started complaining about the peeling paint and uneven floors."

" _His_ peeling paint and uneven floors."

"Yes, well, the simple fact of possessing or creating something has never stopped him from criticizing it," said Sherlock.

"I want to talk about your brother."

"Of course you do."

"Sherlock, this is important," said Joan. "Why have you never—"

"No," said Sherlock. "No. I will allow you into many nooks and crannies of my life and my psyche, Watson, but not this one. This one is off limits."

"Which is exactly why we should explore—

"Conversations like this are exactly why I turned to drugs in the first place."

" _Sherlock._ "

"No, no, forget I said anything," he said. "Since we clearly are _not_ going to be visiting my father this weekend, are we done?"

"If you think I'm going to forget you said something like that—"

"I didn't mean it," said Sherlock. "You know me, I go for the weak spots. It was nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"You should," said Sherlock. "My descent into drug addiction had nothing to do with someone hurting my feelings, or trying to make me talk about them. You know me better than that."

"Well, _something_ made you lash out," said Joan, "and I don't think I'd be doing you any favors by just letting it slide."

"You know what would be a favor?" said Sherlock. "Letting me get back to work. Lots to do, Watson, lots to do."

Joan wanted to push him harder, to not let him retreat, but she'd probably done enough damage for the moment. Something about his relationship with his brother was obviously a huge and previously unknown trigger, and now might be a moment to watch him instead of engaging him.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. I'm going to make myself a cup of tea. Do you want anything."

"I'm fine, thank you," said Sherlock, stiff and cold, before turning on his heel and marching into the office. Joan sighed and headed downstairs, and mentally canceled any other plans she had for the rest of the day.

* * *

Joan considered calling Gregson and telling him that whatever he was doing, it wasn't working. If it even had anything to do with Sherlock at all. Gregson wasn't highest man on the police totem pole, and it wasn't typical to have a consultant at your disposal for every case. It was entirely likely it was just out of his hands. Or it really could just have been that he wasn't struggling for answers for any of his current cases; they weren't all brain teasers.

But whatever the reason, it was driving Sherlock slowly but surely up the wall, and instead of an opportunity, it was feeling more and more like a trial. Joan was up for the challenge, and she couldn't deny that it was probably useful in the long run, but this was probably not the intended consequence of whatever was going on. Almost certainly.

* * *

When Joan came back from the bodega with fruit and yogurt, gone no more than twenty minutes by design and not just happy accident, Sherlock was putting his coat on. Which on any other day would have been a non-issue, but not today. Not right now.

"You're not going out tonight."

"I'm afraid you don't really have a say in the matter anymore," said Sherlock. "In fact, you never really did, checking in aside. I am, as they say, a free man."

"Then I'm asking," said Joan. Positive action, not negative action. Don't tell him what he can't do, tell him what he can. "Stay in with me tonight. I'll cook."

"If bribery is what you were going for, you might've offered to order in my favorite. Mushy pasta is not going to cut it."

"I shouldn't have to bribe you do get you to do something for me. Friendship is supposed to work both ways."

"Ah, but you're not trying to get me to do something for you, you're trying to get me to do something for me."

"You may know you're not going to go out and do something stupid, but I don't," said Joan. "I think you should want to do this for you, but I'm asking you to do it for my peace of mind. Because I have had a long week, and I'm asking you."

"Nobody asked you to worry about me."

"Really?" said Joan. "That's where you're going to make your stand?"

Sherlock did, this time, reconsider. "I don't need you to cook for me," he said finally. "We could do an exercise. That would be acceptable use of our time together."

"Not all our time together needs to have acceptable use," she said, but she knew a compromise when she heard one. "All right. Fine. We can work on something."

"Your _dexterity_ ," said Sherlock. "Throwing knives, perhaps..."

" _At_ me?"

"No, that's hardly a beginner exercise," said Sherlock. "I have many other suitable targets."

Joan couldn't imagine a situation where she would have a well balanced throwing knife on her, nor did she think now was the time for them to be playing with sharp objects, but she also was more than obliquely interested in the exercise, and as a compromise he could have come up with much worse things.

"My hand eye coordination and dexterity are excellent," said Joan, "so bring it on. Show me what you've got, and I'll show you mine."

* * *

Sherlock tucked his scarf in with one hand, the other busy hauling a paper bag full of milk and bread and, less predictably, ant poison and a French curve. Joan had her cell phone out, reading a text from her brother.

"It is absolutely impossible that the New York City Police Department has not had a case that they can use my help on in almost three weeks," said Sherlock. "It defies probability. They're withholding them from me on purpose."

"Or maybe they're using the detectives _actually employed_ by the department to solve their cases," said Joan. "Seems probable to me."

"Don't be so facile," snapped Sherlock. "You're smarter than that. Someone is withholding and I'm going to find out who."

"Some things are not actually about you. Think about it."

"There are many things that have nothing to do with me but this is not one of them."

"If you're implying this was my idea, then no, it wasn't," said Joan. "But I'm not sorry that it's giving us a chance to work on other healthy ways of coping with your chronic boredom."

"I have a healthy way of coping with my boredom, and it's called working," said Sherlock.

" _Other_ healthy ways," said Joan. "Obviously, _obviously_ , you can't always count on having a case to distract you. And following random people around the city in search of something to investigate is going to get you arrested again."

"Hardly," said Sherlock. " _Questioned_ , perhaps."

"Has pedantism ever gotten you out of a serious conversation with me?"

"Actually, yes," said Sherlock, "but not since becoming my apprentice. I must be a very good teacher."

"You don't get to take credit for everything I'm good at."

"No, just the ones related to our line of work."

"Which that was not," said Joan, "and you don't get to take credit for those either. Captain Gregson will call you when he needs you, and there's no point in obsessing about it until then."

"Have you even met me?" said Sherlock. "Minutiae is my business. Who would I be if I didn't obsess?"

"Then turn that obsession towards something productive and not destructive," said Joan. "People do it every day."

"I am not people," said Sherlock. "I live for my work. It is essential to me."

"You love investigating," said Joan. "You're excellent at it. Don't turn it into something you do to avoid dealing with the rest of your life. Don't cheapen it like that."

"I'm not..." Sherlock started, but let the sentence drift off and Joan could see him chewing on that as he hoisted the bag up again and lingered a little, his footsteps slowing slightly as his brain grappled with the idea.

"I'm just saying," said Joan, "that it's not going to kill you to just read a book."

"I read several—"

"A book that has nothing to do with your vocation," said Joan. "I can recommend several."

"Yes, I'm quite sure that you can."

It wasn't a no, and Joan smiled to herself as Sherlock caught up to her again and they headed up the sidewalk for home.

> Chloe hated the sort of person who made her boyfriend do typically masculine things for her while she swanned off like a helpless little sprite. Reinforcing gender stereotypes was something she'd been railing against since her teen years, and her activist streak hadn't mellowed well into her twenties.
> 
> She glared at the woman who'd dressed her boy-girl twins in blue and pink respectively, at the woman waiting for someone to open the door for her, and saved a special look for the young woman making her boyfriend carry her shopping, lagging behind her while she blithely read her email. People like that were everything that was wrong with this world.

"Your playdate is here," said Joan, letting Alfredo in and grabbing her own coat as she did. The weather was starting to turn and she didn't need the scarf anymore, but then again it was New York and one couldn't count on the reliability of spring weather. "I'll see you when I get back."

When Sherlock didn't come down, Alfredo just pointed at the stairs with slightly raised eyebrows and Joan nodded her head. He could find his own way after that, and she had errands to run.

Springtime in New York was not necessarily a beautiful affair, but the point at which the snow was finally all gone, the streets cleaned of mouldering debris, and the trees had just begun to bloom, that was the one of the times of year that Joan loved the most. She left her coat unbuttoned and walked further than she needed to, enjoying the bustle of the streets, the produce that had begun to move outside again, the sunshine on her hair. There were quite a few errands on her list, but nothing that wasn't within walking distances and so she put her hands in her pockets and smiled up at the sky and enjoyed the day.

She returned to find Alfredo's latest vehicle still out front, and after she put her groceries in the kitchen she checked first Sherlock's study and then the library before heading up to the office. When she heard voices, she decided not to interrupt, not intentionally eavesdropping but catching part of their conversation as she redirected herself.

"You're always going to be tempted," said Alfredo. "That's just our reality."

"Well that's encouraging," said Sherlock. "I think your job here is done."

"That's reality," he said again. "That's the truth. Don't tell me you want anything else from me because I won't believe you."

"Of course I want truth, I just reject the idea that there is a _the_ truth, a singular point at which all things and only those things are true."

"Now you're just being a smartass," said Alfredo. "This isn't a game, Sherlock."

"I am fully aware that my recovery is not something I did recreationally," said Sherlock. "I am aware that it is _work_. However, it is _my_ work, and I will choose how I acknowledge it."

Joan slipped away down the stairs again to give them their privacy, having inadvertently violated it more than enough already, leaving the things she'd picked up for Sherlock on the kitchen table where he'd find them and grabbing up her coat from where she'd hung it by the door. It was a beautiful day. She could go walking a little longer.

> They were good for each other. Not in a romantic sense, because Alfredo was no matchmaker and he didn't put much stock in things like that, even though when he first saw them he thought they were together. But Sherlock and Joan were friends, and there was a lot of value in that. He figured, if you found someone like that in your life, you found a way to hang on. Sherlock was a hard guy to get, and he was a bulldozer to the weak-willed, but if you could stand up to him the way Joan did, he met you in the middle. He needed that. And she needed that too, someone both to give her that push, and to give her something to push back against. Alfredo still had a tough job, with Sherlock; they had a long way to go. But Joan definitely made it an easier journey.

"One of my first therapists in rehab suggested that pet therapy might be useful for someone in my position."

"In your position?"

"With a reluctance to engage in regular bonding with other human beings."

"That was irresponsible," said Joan. 

"Yes, exactly!"

"You need to learn how to take care of yourself before you take care of something or someone else."

"No, not that!" said Sherlock. "Do you know many deaths are caused each year by pets? And I'm not just talking about exotic pets like venomous snakes and grizzly bears. The incidence of toxoplasmosis alone."

"And yet you don't seem to be particularly concerned with salmonella."

"I am far more responsible than the average pet owner," said Sherlock, "and she wasn't referring to tortoises, she was referring to the stereotypically furry and cuddly pets one would give a well-behaved child as some sort of a sadistic gift."

"Do you actually have an encyclopedic knowledge of the ways in which people die?"

"Encyclopedic might be overstating," said Sherlock, "but it's hard to think of another word that suffices. Ask me about the perils of cheerleading some time. Or ice cream. Terribly lethal, ice cream."

"Cheerleading, yes," said Joan. "All sports have their dangers. But ice cream?"

"You were the one who brought up salmonella."

"Nevermind," said Joan. "I really don't want to know. So if you're vehemently against cute, furry animals, why'd you bring it up?"

"I thought perhaps that _you_ ," he said, and cleared his throat. "That is to say, this is your home too. If you had any particular requests."

"Requests?" said Joan. "For a pet? Sherlock, I don't want a kitten."

"Or a dog. I understand they're quite popular as well."

"Or a dog," said Joan. "I'm perfectly happy with Clyde, Sherlock. I have enough high maintenance charges in my life without adding a pet to the mix. But thanks for asking?"

"Yes, well," said Sherlock. "If you ever change your mind, I am open to a discussion on the subject. Within certain parameters, of course."

"I'll remember that, thanks."

* * *

Joan was in bed, lying on top of the covers and reading a book, when she heard a knock on the door. 

"Sherlock?"

"May I come in?"

She marked her page with a finger and sat up a little straighter. "Sure, come in," she said. "Is everything all right?"

"I brought ice cream," said Sherlock, two small bowls preceding him through the doorway, like a peace offering.

"I thought you said ice cream was lethal."

"Only under certain circumstances," said Sherlock. "This not being one of them."

"Well, that looks delicious," said Joan, setting her book aside. "I hope you also brought spoons."

"In my shirt pocket," said Sherlock, "which means I need to get myself settled before I retrieve them."

Settled meant on her bed next to her, shoes up on the covers and legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned back against the wall. Moments later he handed her a bowl and spoon.

"My brother is older than me," he said, only once her mouth was full. "We haven't spoken in several years, the reasons for which are myriad. That's all I care to say on the subject for the moment, and I hope you will respect that, Watson."

Joan savored the ice cream while she let that sit in the air between them for a few moments. "It's a start," she said. "Your father's back in London."

"I know," said Sherlock. "He concluded his business with some haste."

"I'm sure that had nothing to do with you."

"Oh, I know it had nothing to do with me," said Sherlock. "So little of what he does has anything to do with me. He did email to inquire about the state of the brownstone, and he seems to have some curious ideas about the nature of our relationship to one another."

"Well, the nature of our relationship to one another is complicated," said Joan. "Even for your father—who _does_ care about you, by the way, even if he doesn't show it in typical ways—who knows the particulars of my former employment."

"He thinks we should be clearer about the delineation between the personal and the professional."

"Well, I can't argue with that in principle," said Joan, "but since when do we let ourselves be defined by anyone else?"

"Since always," said Sherlock. "I believe that might actually be the definition of definition."

"Well, then it's time we stopped," said Joan. "You're my friend, and my employer, and my mentor, and I am your friend and your colleague and your sounding board. We can be all of those things, as long as we understand the nature of each of them."

"Clear boundaries," said Sherlock. "Consideration. Trust. Occasional bowls of late night ice cream."

Joan smiled at him. "I think we're getting the hang of it."

* * *

Sherlock was on the phone when Joan stumbled into the hallway in a long t-shirt, barefoot.

"I see," he was saying, and she ignored him as she passed by on her way to the bathroom. "I see, Captain." That gave her pause, her toothbrush losing some importance in the face of the call. "Very well. Of course. I'll see you there." He stared at the phone for a moment, then at the wall next to Joan's head.

"Well?" said Joan.

"Come along," said Sherlock, springing into action. "We have a case."


End file.
